Let the brush speak over the canvas.
Let it play with light like the wind
running its fingers through clouds
at sunset, raking the air
into layered billows of color.
Let the brush speak, liquid on paper
as the running river that overflows
the rocky streambed.
Let the brush speak—wordless, yet
not silent—channeling the hum
of spring’s early nesters and winged insects—
rustle of leaves in wind.

Though the fog makes no noise
as it hovers over valleys
and silently lifts its feet
over green mountains receding
into blue, let the brush
speak its magic as branches
tangle like tousled hair.

When the fog withdraws, let the sun
light fire in our lungs, flush skin
ripen like fruit. Let the sun
warm faces as the embers of fire
warm the cat on the hearth.
Let the brush spill like sunlight
when the fog withdraws.
Let the earth silence the spade.
Let the fruit ripen,
wind jostle the leaves in the terraced orchard,
clear as the air after the storm: the window pane, the page.